DEAMATIC SONNETS 



A.M.E. 



3^ 



In truth the prison unto which we doom 
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence to me 
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound 
Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground 
Pleased if some souls, (for such there needs must 
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty [be) 
Should find brief solace there as I have found. 

WORDSWORTH 



SEASIDE PRESS; 
NEWPORT, R.I. 




n 
6 






>^ , :2,cl»^<^ (W 






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^ PREFACE. 

^^ 

^ For the sake of thoiiglittul readers to whom the 

name "JJramatic Sonnets" mav not explain tlie 
^ contradictor^^ nature of the various forms of opin- 

ion to be found in them, it is well to say; that these 
verses are j^art of an unfinished design to give 
expression to every i)ossible form of conflicting 
thought and feeling. 

Only occasionally, is there any meaning observ- 
ed in the order of sequence. 

A.M.R. 



Let not Theology, nor Sentiment — 
That half interpreter of truths, be bold 
To speak of things that Faith alone can hold 
Of right divine, and yet be ill content 
That Art should dare invade her element: 
Art the grave master with clear vision cold, 
And heart of warmest love for the manifold 
Converging forces that in truth are blent. 
Eeligion hath no science and no form 
But in the silent world of Faith; and we 
Who would create her image, must employ 
The unsparing hand of Art; all night and storm 
And fear that shape her outlines, we must see 
Xo less than her indwelling light and joy. 



Earth's highest gift, be others wli at they may 
Is leisure — ineasured duty, needful care, 
But time for thought. Alas, not everywhere. 
Have duty's keenest followers won the day; 
For the unresisted impulse to obey 
The prompting of athouglitless conscience, bare 
To every sting, must the firm will impair. 
And waste our strength in labyrinths far away 
From simple action. Master of his soul 
Is he whom careful ISTature hath endowed 
With power to stay, and let the world go by. 
The worlds conflicting duties past him roll, 
Till he discern, from all the tumult loud 
The single voice with warrant from on high. 



Recluse by nature, or from circamstauce 

Or wise resolve, — we, who long solitude 

Have chosen, where the world may not intrude; 

Let us from strength to higher strength advance 

Nor be content with peace that any chance 

Of man's regard, that needless gratitude 

Foi: recognitition menace, still renewed 

Through new rebellion. Their serene expanse 

Of birthright freedom, they alone, indeed 

Inherit, who to the sovereignty are born 

Of mortal envy; who from life recede 

[Not out of ignorant hate, nor thoughtless scorn. 

But from allegiance to a higher creed 

That social laws and duties have forsworn. 



J>^o peace that grants a haven of repose 
From Earth's incessant vanity and care 
But must be dearly purchased. All men share 
The struggle for existence, and even those 
Who tired of life's conventions, empty shows 
And heartless triumphs, in themselves will dare 
Eesolve to live above them, must prepare 
For other conflicts, though with other foes. 
The world will rally to avenge the cause 
Of her elect, and in w^hat fortress rare 
Of self-possession we may scorn to fear 
The onset, she will claim for broken laws 
Indemnity in secret, hard to bear 
4s the exactions of her vexed career. 



6 



L ORD, I believe; help thou mine unbelief, 
Ortea-c' - -hat it weighs not in thy scale 
A grain of dust. Although my vision fail, 
Although this world stand in so bold relief 
Against thy far pale heaven, though ages, brief 
Yet self-sustaining in their tenure frail 
Make life eternal but an idle tale. 
Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief. 
Assure me of the truth I only feel^ 
That doubt is but an ailment of the mind 
That life may heal; a burden of the soul 
That patience lightens, though until the .^eal 
Of Death is raised, my conscience wait^ to find 
That faith whereof no dogma hath control. 



Deny thy heart the false humility 

That claims the merciful justice Grod aud man 

Accord to iguorauce, thou, in Nature's plan 

The first and last, to whom the truth is free 

As air and light. The freedom that must be 

To acknowledge heights and depths we cannot span, 

And limitations that with thought began, 

Confound not witli the slothful liberty 

Of uncontrolled conscience, that may choose 

Its own false limit, intercepting light 

To boast of doubt and darkness that refuse, 

That fear,decision, while to left and right 

The radiance of thy nature's inward sun 

Shines on thy vineyard's work, unloved, undone. 



8 



Ij TURNING froin my faith to Knowledge, saw 

All forms of life go down to endless death, 

Nor was there power in man's diviner bieath 

To stay the arm of nniversal law. 

And when I said that manmnst surely die, 

Behohl my living soul was dead within; 

He crucified afresh who for my sin. 

Did once draw near the mercy seat on high. 

Ah! Lord my soul is dead, my heart is cold, 

That did aspire to serve thee night and day, 

Ah! cruel hands have taken my Lord away 

That I nor love nor fear Him as of old. 

And to these prayers that fill the vacant skies 

No Voice in all the universe replies . 



9 



So dear is life, and the beloved dust 
That answers to our love no more, so dear, 
That the unconscious argument, sincere, 
Of strong desire may build the innate trust 
In life immortal. Even the hosts august. 
Martyr and saint and ministering angel, clear 
To wistful faith, fade from his atmosphere 
Who finds eternal [N^ature wisely just 
In death as life, who loves the truth so well. 
That life ianot so dear. Although the law 
Of visible Nature m a^^ not m ark th e tide 
And limit of the will of God, nor tell 
The tale of being, with no lessened awe 
He bows, who dai es to otherwise decide. 



10 



From that calm height where Law can never yi eld 
His place to Mercy, comes to mortal ears 
The cry, Renounce! that every one who hears 
Must, as he will, interpret. On some field 
Of that self-warfare thev are called to wield 
A sword of fire, whose names are written clear 
Whether in heaven or earth; and in the sphere 
Of every life, however man may shield 
His slothful will,the unexplained command 
Haunts the convictions of his troubled mind 
With dreams of rest. It may be that we live 
Upon the borders of a promised Land, 
WhiBre the obedience of the Law would find 
A recompense that Mercy cannot give. 



I 



11 



Of all the spoils of victory Life recounts 

Is it then trne that nothing is her own, 

4nd that by restoration she alone 

To the fulfilment of possession mounts! 

Is then that voice of martyr deeds, Eenouncel 

The only key to victory they have known 

Who have the stronghold of the willo'erthrown 

And drink of power from superhuman founts'? 

Ah, even such victory may be dearly bought, 

And such possession, loss! O, life, no more, 

Even for those glimmering principalities, 

Give up the birth-right of thy freeborn thought; 

Xor vex the sunshine of thy native shore 

With dreams that ro re the dark surrounding seas 



12 



Here, where not always we behold the race 
Unto the swift, we, who by random gift 
Of careless Natnre, are among the swift 
And strong ennumbered,ranst assert onr place 
Of strongest, often, by the patient grace 
That bears with failnre. There is i)ower to lift 
The soul of man from those dark tides that drift 
J)espair and death to meet hiui, m tbe face 
Of his own mercy. Ah, the task is light 
To gi ow impatient with onrselYes,to scorn 
bnr poor absolving, — hard indeed to figlit 
The self-condemning from self-knowedge bum, 
Bnt he is strongest who can most forgiA e 
To that lost vonth he i; cr can relive. 



13 



I, WHO am young, let me not crave too much 

Thebuiden of content, not too much strain 

The shining mirage of Desire to touch: 

Fruition's rest is full of nameless pain. 

And 3^et, O End ! O Best ! if there be such 

In all the woi Id, come in the mighty reign 

Of autumn on this silent inland plain. 

Unto a spirit toiling over much. 

I who am old, let not my heart annul 

By futile hope the gain of suffering years, 

Kor make the fine gold of their wisdom dull 

With youth's sweet passion of unfruitful tears. 

And yet, in this fair Spring, with ^N'ature's tongue, 

I cry aloud, would God, I too were young. 



14 



When they who sleep the sleep of youth awake. 
And first discern how grievous was their f ault 
To dream that passion might their lives exalt 
Above the never-changing laws that make 
Eternal change prevail, they cannot break 
The chain of hope. Although tlieir courage halt, 
They ever more must arm to the assault 
Of some fierce stronghold, none m ly ever take. 
Hope ! thou who dost our morning prayer uplift. 
And at the eventide forsakest thy trust, 
Ah, take the treacherous anchor from their souls ! 
Better with winds and currents of nature drift. 
Better in deep sea calms of knowledge to rust, 
Than to be moored in tidal depths and shoal ^. 



15 



Though thou hast learned the lesson of the years. 
And mastery over ignorance, that brings 
The deep relations of discordant things 
To make the harmony of the living spheres ; 
Though from ont earth and heaven unto thine ears 
Unfold their magic awful, viewless kings 
That reign in mountain summits and the rings 
Of the vast seas ; yea, though thy spirit hears 
IS^ature herself, the voice of God, the word 
Which is the Life, if lo^^e for thine own kind — 
So easily lost,so hard to keep or find — • 
Abide not with thee, all that thou hast heard, 
All thou hast seen cannot redeem thy soul; 
Thou art no part of life's immortal whole. 



10 



THor who dost sit Hiiiong" us at the hearth , 
Tliou also wast with Him of Galilee, 
The Yirgiii-horu ; — thy speech betrayeth thee ; 
And fearing* the encounter of their mirth , 
T , who above all the dearest things of earth 
Have held Hiin dear, made answer sorroAvfully 
I know Him not ; nothing is He to me — 
Xothing the worhl-tradition of His birth. 
Then to the Christ within my soul I said: 
(Hoping tliat Simon's grace might still be mine' 
j)ear Lord, to men like these can T lay bare 
The mystic union that with thine has wed 
My secret life? The S])irit made no sign; 
Christ heard me not. He was no longer there. 



17 



Xew teachers of the world, whose liberal thought 
Would mould the weak and tunid of our race 
In new lieroic forms of inborn grace, 
And bay for them the truth tliat is not bought, — 
Have ,ye not learned what miracle were wrought, 
If, with their swift teinptations face to face. 
The expedient lie could lightly yield its place. 
Or inward honor were by teaching taught? 
The minds tliat can of everything discern 
The intrinsic worth, tliat feel the subtle line 
Dividing trutli from falsehood,have no need 
Of human words, but who the truth must learn 
Would counterfeit her likeness with desire 
To steal the birthright of a nobler breed. 



I 



18 



Cease brave Philosophy, — and even thou 
Eeligion , with what heavenly warrant pure, — 
Who waste our strength in warfare to secure 
Impossible peace . Stoic, or saint ! avow 
That ye, whom definite griefs at last endow 
With calm of resignation, have no cure 
For those who must a life suspense endure , 
Where Hope's uncertain tide^ no pause allow 
For that desi)air named patience. Let us find 
Ai3eace that need not on oar hopes depend, 
i » Days with absorbing thought and action filled, 

In which the invincible sorrows of tlie jnind 
Xo more with that perpetual present blend 
That man above his past may e ver build. 



■^5?: 



T 



19 



So long as in the starry fastness cold, 

Where force and matter join in swervelcvss law, 

A power unknown is throned, so long as awe 

Must grow with growing knowledge, and untold 

The Jnighty secret of their life enfold 

The living, so long will tlie star they saw 

That led tlieni to the young cliild Jesus, draw 

The wise men toward hijn, aud no man withhold 

A Savior human and divine. Fear not, 

O small Evangelist, trutlis like these have been 

In peril of loss. That God came down from heaven, 

Will be a legend ever unforgot 

Through the remotest ages, while men sin 

Against thenivseU^es the seventy times of seven. 



20 



We liave not lived in vain who see at last 

The all loving God has known us, year by year, 

That he rejoiced with us in that dear past 

Wherein we did not dream that he wa^near; 

Xor did refuse our hopeless call to hear, 

W^hen, high enthroned in starry spaces vast, 

He seemed so far. from the remorse and fear 

Of mortals from their paradise outcast. 

He sent His ministering angels, i»atient Time, 

And Wisdom, that compel us to outlive 

The death of youth. O Father ! since that prime 

Of grief is past, let thy strong angels give, — 

N^ot the forgetfulness of loss alone. 

But of the joy whose loss we ha^^e outgrown. 



21 



The sun has risen above the wide, grey beach, 
The day is fair, — the morning brings a thrill 
Of hope and courage, and more resolute will 
The narrow way of higiier life to reach. 
Shall not some newborn x)ower of thought or speec 
This day the earnest dreams of faith fulfil, — 
Transcend our thoughts of relative good and ill 
By some eternal truth, defining each 
With clearness no expedients that assail 
Weak wills can darken f Oh, to be only sure 
Of absolute right, and never more to quail 
Before a tutored conscience,nor to endure 
The weight that other men's convictions give 
Our fears, life would be easier far to live. 



22 



God speaketh and saith ; "I do remember thee 

When thou wentest after me in the wilderness: 

No desert could withhold thee, no distress 

Of drought or fire, no perils of land or sea 

Could come between tliy burning love and me ; — 

Where art tliou now f Ah, Lord, the world did press 

With love more dear than thine to save and bless, 

With life more near than thy eternity, 

With promise more than all the world could fill; 

O, that I might return to thee, before 

The latest days, before my heart is cold ! 

^'Eeturn, — I will have mercy on thee still 

With everlasting kindness ; but no more 

Canst thou draw near with that same love of old." 



1 



23 



•^COME HOW and let iis reason, '\saitli the Lord: 
Xor more transcendent reason ean we know. 
Than that oni* scarlet sins shall be as snow; 
That justice yields no .i>Tound, when her accord 
With perfect mercy, stays the righteous sword 
That spares our guilty souls. The heavens glow 
With (me consuming tire of lore; and though 
Inflexible meniory never hath restored 
A stainless ])ast, and though experience, wise 
With lessoir- of our folly, may refuse 
A stainless future, to the spirit within. 
Where God's eternal boundless pj eseut lies, 
Is neither ])ast nor future : Life may choose 
Each JHomentnew existence to begin. 



24 



We must be born again. What they may mean, 

Who spake of blood and water, and the swift 

Fire of the spirit, though we may not lift 

Our faithless eyes to see, we cannot screen 

The indwelling sin; nor mists of pride, between 

Our thought, and knowledge of the truth can drift, 

That we, unless we may accept some gift 

Of infinite repentance, are unclean 

For evermore. No purgatorial fire, 

No graded progress through celestial spheres ' 

Hath logic to persuade the world, that sin 

Hath not immortal guilt, nor that desire 

Can take away^ that life's remaining years 

From some regeneration might begin. 



T 



25 



Know, thou who seest the havoc life has made 

In some false soul, tliat once was true and fair, 

Not more to thee is all the ruin laid bare. 

Than to itself, not less of thine afraid. 

Than its own condemning. Ah, betrayed 

Of creeping habit, — I^ature's cunning snare 

For hearts that trust lier, — who can tell what pray- 

Has cried to Nature's God too late to aid! [er, 

''My yoke is eas^^, and my burden light:" 

But one who his own burden long hath borne. 

Who has the yoke of this world too long worn. 

Loves not the freedom of the inward might: 

Youth, with its ardent fire of self-control. 

Alone hath will, hath power to exalt the soul. 



26 



Is it thou who kuowest no faith, who hast no dread 

Of the Nemesis of life "? Thou fool, before 

Thine e>es she stands, the threshold of thy door 

She enters even now with noiseless tread; 

And ever when thou lay est down thy head, 

She is itjWhom thou dost in vain implore 

To call the illusions of the past once more. 

And for these stones give back their living bread. 

Thou knowest her not, — thee she has always known, 

Erer pursuing, neither in sorrow nor wrath, 

Thy footsteps, nor in kindness, but alone, 

In silence, where thou hast ordained her path: 

Mercy has no such power in the boundless heaven 

As thou thyself to Nemesis hast given. 



2.7 



StebNj narrow soul, lost in the A^ague domain 

Of mystic faith; strong will by accident 

Of birth, that urged by heavenly discontent 

The impossible heights of perfect peace to gain 

]Mdst not prevail beyond the strife and pain 

Of baffled sense; — no tribute of lament 

Above thy futile toil, and grief missx)ent 

Can reach thee now, where from thy high disdain 

Thou liest so low. Ah, were not too much given 

For thy soul's ransom, would that thou wert free 

From thine eternal solace to descend, 

Only to tell us what availed to heaven 

Thy life of sacrifice and pain, that we 

Might know of our self-pleasing years the end. 



2S 



To walk this world with eyes forever cast 
On the unsure fouudations of its peace, 
Will buy of Grod no favor, nor decrease 
The power of evil. From the in ^aolate past, 
The world that is, the shadowed presence vast 
Of worlds to come, since nothing can release 
The bond of infinite oneness, let us cease 
Our ignorant rebellion, nor contrast 
Eternity and time, nor life and death. 
As though we might escape from death or time 
In that "Memento Mori.'' Though it be 
All things are vanity, as the preacher saith, — 
Not even mystic faith can make sublime 
The impatience of our brief humanity. 



T 



29 



In life's young consciousuess of inborn might 
We vow, that in the changes yeais may bring, 
Our hearts shall ever keep their tender spring, 
That age shall never t>teal our young delight. 
Let us then know, that of all powers, that wait 
An endless warfare with our peace to wage, — 
Hastening the cuirent of our youth to age, 
No one is stronger, nor more sure than Hate. 
Pray that ye hate not, even with zeal of right. 
Men w^ho are hateful; lest the power grow". 
Until of all the holiest things 3 e know, 
Not one will more be lovely in your sight: 
And ye are homeless strangers in your land. 
With age and pain and sorrow nigh at hand. 



T 



30 



With this eternal winter in my breast, 
Why do these airs of spring-time, and the sound 
Of skilful music, wake these hopes profound, 
My heart shall have the joy it once possessed ! 
Such joy can come no more where Fear, before. 
In life's clear day his dark device hath spun : 
The wrong the cunning of his hand has done. 
The hand of Love cannot undo. Xomore 
IN'eedhope disturb my patience, and the powers 
That teach me to accept this wise despair. 
Mast help me not alone the grief to bear. 
But all the snares of these Enchanted Bowers, 
Where echoes of the past around me pour 
Sweet sounds of love, that can return no more. 



T 



31 



Will not the omnipotent God bow down the skies 
To my importunate prayer ? Believe not so; 
But set thy soul to learn its task, and know 
That all great sorrow, though our nature crias 
Aloud for rescue, in its blind surpi ise. 
Is but a part of the eternal flow 
Of things that are. Iso hand, save of the slow 
Advancing past, can grant thy prayer. How wise. 
He who implores no sign from heaven, how brave, 
Who dares not waste his power in vain appeal. 
But from the shipwreck of his dearest hope 
Whatever may be gathered, seeks to sa^^e; 
And even from his own heart would fain conceal. 
Of that dread loss its wide and desolate scope. 



32 



Whether our virtues be the uncouscicus fruits 

Aud organism of a balauced mind, 

Or whether culture, or the favor blind 

Of fair surrounding unto gold transmutes 

A native evil, all our gra ^ e disputes 

Will not determine. And so far declined 

The Light that lit the world, how shall we find 

Faith to receive the virtue He imputes! 

Yet, even though your own birthright be secure 

To thrones of heaven, though these laborious days 

In your own vineyards, reap immortal gain. 

Ah, let the righteousness of Christ endure 

For those, on whom inherited failure weighs. 

Who have no title of 1 heir own to reign. 



33 



What we miist reap, that have we sowu. 41as, 
That only when onr harvest fields are sown, 
]3owe first know the truth we might have known, 
Before the day of reckoning came to pass; 
Before the inflexible heavens were as brass 
Above onr long remorse. Though we atone 
To God and man, with tears that do suri>ass 
The measure of our fault, what we ha^ e sown, 
Remains to be the harvest we must reap; 
And though kind Mature still hath peace in store, 
And the long solace of the evening years; 
Yet even He, who for His wandering sheep. 
Laid down His life, can bring lost hope no more, 
Nor lift the burden of our midnight tears. 



34 



Child, that aFakestfrom thy mystic's dreani, 

Whose weary will shall never more aspire 

To those far heights, in whom a qnenchedfire 

Of conscience, weary of her star supreme, 

Shall light no more, — let not the eternal beam 

Of truth, to tjiee, with that lost hope expire. 

Far in the waning heavens of thy desire^ 

The presence of undying love, the gleam 

Of the enduring promise, thy distrust 

Could never change. The penance of thy pain. 

Thy exx)edient self-denial, unto Him 

Who knows our frame, remembering we are dust. 

Are lost indeed; — and thy endurance vain, 

And all in vain, but faith, however dim. 



35 



Ye uuto the name of Christ, your Light, 
Your King and atouing Savior is so dear. 
Who through these mists of time, can see so clear, 
The Father's love on Calvary's awful height: — 
What offering can be precioUvS in his sight, 
What tribute of thanksgiving reach his ear 
From 3 on, who judge the souls he, loved, nor fear 
His secret law of absolute Wrong and Right? 
If ye, children of faith, may suffer doubt 
And grieve the days wherein his voice is dumb 
Within the temple where your offerings wait, — 
How know ye not, that ofttimes, far without 
The gates of faith, a voice to us may come, 
And unbelief's assurance hesitate'^ 



;^(i 



And tlioii, wliat dost thou herel my spirit said, 
With these dis(uj)les ot* tlie fold shut in, 
Who hast no liope nor fear to theirs akin, 
Who art no^ hungry for their living bread? 
If from tliy quiet deserts of the dead, 
TliOu wonhL'^tnnew tlie way of life begin, 
What Lamb of God can takeaway thy sin, 
Or give a form to faitli whose soul has fled? 
8,ad sj)irit, — I know not wliy thou seevSt me here. 
Only tlie well-remembered hymn and prayer 
I he ir I igaln, half reverent, half in scorn; 
Tlie unforgotten dream of faith drew near. 
And fljied the<e waking nnmients, with the air 
Of somi^ dim Eden, wliere their light was born. 



37 



To lie in this dim summer light, with the air 

Of ocean in the long sea grass, and flight 

Of shining mist above me, — what delight! 

I seein a part of I^ature's self, and dare. 

For these briefmoments, to forget my share 

In life's great tragedy of Wrong and Right, 

Before the listening heavens. On what rare height, 

Free from the war of conscience, from despair 

Above the irretrievable years, thou reignst, 

O Nature, — fair as in the dawn of earth! 

Thy storms and whirlwinds never reach thy soul; 

While we, forever conquered, fight against 

The inevitable limit of our birth. 

And learn no lesson from thy self-control . 



38 



Tomorrow's sun will never shine for thee : 

Farewell, O love, for thou must go to-night, 

Forever from the darkness and the light! 

If this be so, then take away from me 

These sounds and sights of earth; and leave me free, 

Alone in silence, with the silent night. 

That ye may know not when the end may be. 

Wilt thou then fear, O soul? — Ye have no right 

To watch the anguish of my lingering breath 

For answer. Whether seeds of terror, sown 

In helpless childhood, spread their shadow drear. 

Or the faint light of an immortal death 

Prevail above me, — unto me alone 

Belongs the hour, whose power is drawing near. 



39 



This iiigiit thy soul will be required of thee, 

This (lay thy life vshall with the day decline: 

If this be so, O, world of love divine ! 

(), kingdom of my Lord, where I shall see 

His face in joy, through love's eternity. 

And when your fair tomorrow's sun shall shine, 

Although my silent presence make no sign, 

Conceive what daylight must have dawned for me, 

Where the new glory of God and of the Lamb 

Doth make the light. And when at last ye turn 

From mvcold face, let this assurance burn 

Through the dread presence, that the eternal calm 

Of truth is mine, and that T hold the key 

To your sad problems of humanity. 



40 



Thy night bast come at last, the starless night 
Whose (laAvn is death. Look forward, soul of mine, 
And all possession of thy past resign, — 
Thy day of life, whose useless legions light 
In vain. Because thou wilt not yield thy right 
To hope and fear tliat are no longer thine. 
Because thou measurest not the strength divine. 
Therefore alone the inevitable might 
Of de^th appals thee. Since it is too late 
For pleasure, or for deep inistake, or sin, 
To barter with thy fears, — let them alone; 
And silently advance into the great 
Approaching presence, Avhere thou shalt begin 
To know thv.^elf as thou wert alwavs knoAvn. 



41 



Alas for cultured lives, who know so well 
The mechanism of souls, who claim to see 
So clearly the original decree 
That limits JS^ature's power, they must rebel 
hi this new paradise where others dwell 
Safe in the shadow of the sacred tree 
Of infinite life, and are no longer free 
To obey the instinct that would faith impel. 
Ah, though conviction hath no sovereignty, 
Nor man's experience sanction, by the law 
Of God's organic world, no lives coutrol 
Their springs of faith; and Immortality 
Hath power to haunt with superstitious awe 
The inward, hmely centre of the soul. 



42 



When we have given up our young intent 

To own the heaven and earth ; when first we know, 

That the remorseless years must come and go, 

Nor only for ourselves, nor to the bent 

Of our desire; that life will not relent 

For our mistakes of ignorance, nor bestow 

Even a poor martyr name to heal our woe, — 

Then first, although our prime of years be spent 

Do we begin to live, to know in truth 

The hidden depths of mercy; glad of heart 

That life and w^ork are left us. Let us pray 

For our dear children; that in the strength of youth, 

They learn the wisdom we have set apart 

Unto the eleventh hour of the day. 



4.: 



Oh loving Savior, early I awake, 

To call tliy naine, and in the deep of night, 

To thee my soul doth wing her lonely flight, 

And live with thee nntil the morning break. 

Each day my sonl endureth, for the sake 

Of that rare solace, that at limes, the sight 

Of thine ai)i)earance nnaware, doth make, — 

A sndden daysimng, that resolves in light 

All earthly things and heavenly as they are. 

And not as men imagine. But how slow 

Am Tto learn the lesson, thanbetAveen 

Those visions, thou art not withdrawn more far. 

Than when thy presence bends the heaven so low. 

That earth bi^comes in turn the world unseen. 



44 



In guarded pastures have I fed, where weed 

Of superstition, nor the cultured flowers 

Of sacred dogma grew. The guiding powers 

That watched the instiacts of my soul to plead 

With Heavenly might, kept watch with zealous heed 

That T saw not the impregnable walls and towers 

Of angered justice, that this world of ours 

Has built upon its borders. There did bleed 

No Lamb of God for me; and yet, O Christ, 

O, pure and lonely martyr undeflled. 

Whence is it that now a nameless love is born 

Within ?uy soul, before thy sacrificed 

And wounded form, thy godlike presence, mild 

And silent, in its resurrection mom. 



^o 



The years were not in vain,— a lifetime, passed 
In slow availing x)rayer to see the alone 
Acces;sible truth, that life could not have known 
Through less vicissitude. Eevealed at last 
The fallacy of that mystic law, — the vast 
Unsearchable will of God to make our own, 
As though the absolute Glory of his throne 
Were at the mercy of his creatures cast; 
And fallen the mighty thrones, of dogma, wrought 
Of human wisdom, superseding law, 
By mercy far more legal. Xothing lies 
Between the horizon of my earnest thought 
And cloudless heavens, where T behold with awe 
A sun of inconceivable wisdom rise. 



46 



My heart is fixed: — henceforth no time, nor place, 

l^or power, — no doubt that kills the soul, — no night 

Of grievous trial, nor the blinding light 

Of the world's day, the moments can efface. 

Wherein my soul through mists of time did trace 

The Son of Man. Descended from no height 

Of cloud built thrones nor crowned in aureole white 

Of mystic flame, but with surpassing grace 

Of human life, — clear in the Eoman past, 

His form arose; and I, who saw him,knew 

For evermore that this indeed was He, 

Whose own received him not, — the First and Last, 

The word of God that maketh all things new, 

The kingdom and the power and victory. 



47 



CouLDST thou not watch one hour? Alas, he knew 

Who kept that loving vigil all alone. 

Above a careless world, where even his own, 

His dearly loved, slept the long night time through, — 

They could not watch. The unwilling sleep that grew 

Upon their eyelids, hath more deeply grown 

Upon our souls; — no more the sorrowing tone 

Of the dear Master can our watch renew. 

Choose which of these were life's unhappier fate: — 

Back in the current of the world to turn. 

With no pretence upon our Lord to wait: 

Or to accept the watch, bring oil to burn 

Until the morning, but to find at dawn. 

That we have slept all night and he has gone. 



15 



JJeep virtue hatb this cup of healing cold, 

Earth's wisdom offers , that however rare 

Your life's endurance seem, ye only share 

A common late, — that every heart has told 

Your secret of experience, in the old. 

And i)itiless desert of the heavenly air! 

Ah, false and vain! Xo man can lightlier bear. 

That mau has borne, — nor earth's arcana hold 

A virtue that hath any cure to give 

Life s fatal fever. Let us rather face 

The outer snow and, ice the Land of Death, 

Whereof man knows not, save that God doth live 

And rest therein: and from the silent space, 

AYe leel Eeligion's cold, inspiring breath. 



49 



Of the stem heaven ye make what hopeless quest! 
Freedom to follow youriinguided will, 
With all the assurance and the power that fill 
Those souls alone, that in obedience rest: — 
Freedom from loss and sorrow, with that best 
And surest knowledge they alone instil: — 
The heart of youth, with the unerring skill 
To read the whole of life, that is possessed 
Through years of insight only. Of mankind 
Ye claim as gods, to judge and recompense 
The good and evil, while your eyes are blind 
To all that lies beyond your narrow sense: 
Neither of heaven nor earth ye have the key 
Neither in life nor death the victorv. 



50 



It is no irreverence, friend and priest, 

For thine high office, that I cannot choose, 

Even in these bonds of friendship, bnt refuse 

Thy gift in ministry, that my need, at leavSt, 

Can minister nothing, — though it be a feast 

To thousands, that in losing thee, would lose 

Their bread of life. Let not thy pride accuse 

Just^Nature, that some minds she has released 

From that lay service, but arraign tlie blind 

Though careful judgment, that through time nnkno\\ni, 

Has failed to sanction that release. O friend, 

Thou seest with me two lives divide mankind: 

The priest's, — though priest unto himself alone, — 

And his who must on priestly hel]) depend. 



51 



He is it wlio hath made us, and not we 

Ourselves ; and in one human mould is cast, — 

Though with discerning justice we contrast 

Our lives with others, — all humanity 

He is not I'rcm the bonds of Nature free, 

Who wills to be in lonely priesthood classed; 

The slowest J'ears will manifest at last 

The tether ofhis vaunted liberty. 

For pierced by secret sin, and weak Avith pain. 

Or worn with long vicissitude of fate. 

The organism of his weary brain, 

Will fear or superstition penetrate: 

And he the nearest guide will fain receive, 

And by a stranger's hope and faith believe. 



52 



The inmost veil of heaven is rent in twain,— 

Thy Lord is dead, and death has claimed his own; 

The seal shall not be broken on the stone, 

ISTor the stone lifted where thou hast him lain. 

Hadstthou liad faith but as this living grain. 

He would have lived:— but lost in death, unknown, 

He sleepeth; and unto the Father's throne 

The son of man will never rise again. 

Now art thou strong: and thou hast need of strength, 

Lest in thy plastic conscience, clear and still, 

The impress of his beauty should remain. 

To haunt the friendless years, and light at length 

The spark of dread conviction in thy will:— 

**This was the Son of God that T have slain." 



/ 



53 



That thou hast reached the height of mortal joy, 

Boast not of life, as though thy joy were all 

Of human fate, or griefs that elsewhere fall. 

Like arrows in the soul, could life destroy. 

Earth will outlast our pleasure and our i)aiu; 

And only after many peaceful years. 

And many days and nights of anxious tears. 

Can we look back, and count our loss and gain. 

Then may we claim indeed a favored lot, 

If of our keenest grief Ave knew^ the worst; 

If in our hearts no lingering doubt is nursed, 

^o unexplained misgivings, unforgot. 

Can mar the peace experience brings to life, 

With distant murmur of perpetual strife. 



54 



What serves the illusion of thy restless mind 
That life can be uncertain of its fate? 
Although thy weak self-mercy vacillate 
From wise despair, to longings undefined 
That have the form of hope, thou hast divined 
The secret truth. Uncertainty can wait 
Not long upon our pleasure, nor create 
Such hope as may the inward vision blind. 
Thou knowestthe VTorst: the best is still to learn; 
The boundless power of life to adjust her course 
To final truth, without the heart's consent. 
All things that earth has given, to earth return, 
And youth will die, but life's undying force 
Ui)on her fair ^amenities be spent. 



th) 



Man is a race of kings. Who that is boru, 

Feels not that he shoukl have been born to rule! 

Nor was designed to be the pliant tool 

Of inclination, in allegiance sworn 

To Nature — cruel master! Ali so shorn 

Of that fair grace of kingship, in what school 

Shall he attain the knowledge how to rule, 

And live no longer prey of his self scorn? 

Tliere is indeed a talismanic word. 

That holds the gate of power and liberty, — 

The word Obedience, but its magic sound, 

Lost in familiar language, is unheard. 

Its power unknown, to us who seek the ke^^ 

Whereby dominion of tlie eartli is found. 



56 



For that fair morn of yoiitb, — the discipliue 
Of happy years, that hath its uses stern, 
No less than sorrow's self, our hearts return 
A twofold gratitude. Had life not been 
The sum of all possession earth could win. 
Her highest lesson had remained to learn. 
With God's elect, the passionate fires that burn 
Their youth to dust, are but that fire within, 
Where the Eefiner sits; and as from dross 
Glimmers the gold, so faith in Jesus Christ 
From the dark alchemy of Nature springs; 
And they are born again. The ordeal of loss 
To acheive the perfect work had not sufficed 
Without the wisdom earth's fruition brings. 



57 



Is it not written : — he that will do His will 
Shall know his doctrine? JJo not words like these 
Pour light above thy conscience, that it sees 
The narrow highway, winding clear and still? 
"Ah no; — before all things availeth skill 
Of teaching, for obedience cannot please 
A conscience doubtful of itsowm decrees 
And swayed by Nature: — and no man, until 
Conviction of the perfect truth, can know 
The perfect will." Not so darest thou reply 
Before the courts of heaven; for deep below 
The currents of our faltering judgments,]ie 
The pure decisions of Eternal right, 
The will of God, clear in the inward light. 



58 



Why should the snulight and the moonlight shine 

And idle mirth and music have their Avay, 

Ami youtli and maiden boast their holiday 

With song and laughter, while such grief as mine 

Is in the world, — pain that no help, divine 

Or human, hath the science to allay! 

Ah, be thy source of sorrow what it may, 

The world has seen a deeper grief than thine; 

For tliere are souls whose anguish doth so weigh 

Her weight upon them, that the careless play 

Of life they see not, nor their ears incline 

To happy voices ; — or they sadly say: — 

Let music and rejoicing have their way 

Because the world contains such grief as mine. 



59 



Our Duty hath no treasure held iu store: 

The happiness of every hour depends 

Upon the liope and confidence she sends, 

The wages of an hour gone before. 

This life's continual toil can earn no more 

Than to buy oil, the lamp of Duty spends; 

Her yesterday a guiding ray extends, 

But can the strength to follow not restore. 

They who accept her service to beguile 

An aching heart, will find a sure reward 

In serving, but if for a little while 

Their tired wills should rest, the cold regard 

Of Duty will disown them, and the old pain 

Unchecked of passive conscience, must remain. 



GO 



The rigorous law that measures puuisbineut 

To our unconscious sins, without regard 

To helpless inexperience, or the hard 

Conditions of perfection, was not sent 

With the unequal justice of intent, 

To punish only, but to assure and guard 

For our unwilling virtues, more reward 

Than waits their true deserving. One who hath 

His years in toils of stern necessity, [spent 

Or selfish virtue, sees the unloved restrnint 

Compel a gradual patience in his soul; 

And finds the triumph born of Self-control, 

Silence the ignoble wailing of complaint, — 

And that in true subjection, he is free. 



61 



O RESTLE^^s Shepherd's dog, that up and down 
Pursnest thy Master's sheep, art thon so snre 
Thou knowest the greenest fohl, the spring* most pure 
For every hunb? What floods so ev^er drown, 
What beasts devour, what pastures dry and brown 
May starve the flock, or hidden snare aUure 
In many a tempting shelter insecure, — 
Thou hast no heed save of thine own renown 
For zealous service. Will, not at thy hands. 
The Shepherd of his flock demand the sheep 
That thou hast led from many a sheltered fold 
Of early faith, at last to treacherous sands 
Of dogma, whereon pours the unsounded deep 
Of faithless human reason, dark and cold. 



62 



RUSKIN, — the fruitless logic of thy course 

To that rare sympathy doth inake ai)peal 

Ofthose elect children of men, who feel 

The grave relations of the eternal force 

Of art to life. Thou, who the hidden source 

(3f perfect beauty wouldst to men unseal, 

The imperfection that no art can heal. 

Didst slowly learn, with how sublime remorse. 

Others have seen creation's curse with thee. 

And felt the burden of the earth no less; 

But from their cultured ease, few lives would dare 

With thine,embark upon the hopeless sea 

Of human ills, or even at heart confess 

How nobler far thy hope, than their despair. 



da 



Shall I be startled at the cry: ^^l^repare 

To meet thy Godf ' To me the thought doth bring 

Enduring conFolation; — not the sting 

Of terror in the conscious heart, hiid bare 

Before the worhl that cannot weigh nor spare. 

O infinite Father of my life, O King 

And Judge, — be thine in everything 

The judgment and the sentence. Every prayer 

Of the wakeful night goes up before thee, all 

The elements that wrought our being's laws 

Were woven in thy presence, and no chain 

Of motives, but thy mercy shall recall. 

Thy justice weigh, when thoushalt plead our cause, 

Nor tax our ignorant conscience to explain. 



64 



The long disquiet of tliy soiiFs estate, — 

The fretful passiou, and the nameless pain 

Thathnunts the triumph of our fairest gain 

Comes from no malice of celestial fate, 

But that the eternal truth has dawned too late, — 

Ye cannot serve two i\li^sters. Ye remain 

In half allegiance to the exacting reign 

Of truth, the loving master, stern and great, 

While ever}' moment brings its petty weight 

Of social bondage, falsehoods that restrain 

From loyal action, courteous words that feign 

A willing service to the world ye hate. 

Eenounce that world, — or from high truth refrain; 

And neither master shall ye serve in vain 



65 



Thou art avenged, dear child, for any wrong, 

I, knowing or unknowing, might have done; 

^o penance were more deep, than thus to long 

To see thy face once more beneath the sun. 

Yet not to him whose chihlish years belong 

To me, who saw their happy moments run. 

Dare we look more; — but mito thee, thou strong 

And silent Angel! who hast now begun 

The eternal years of God. Oh, child and saint 

Remember us, we pray tliee, who remain 

Here, where no light of knowledge comes, who faint 

Beneath the hope and faith that are so vain. 

Thy little grave lies dark in the outer night; 

Thine angel lost on some cold shining height. 



